Truism, Daughters, and the Gray Shades Surrounding
by oldsgt
Summary: A small slice of introspective Charlie: Police Officer, father, and quiet observer of the unknown and undefinable things that his life in Forks has presented. Written for the gazebo fic Charlie contest.


**A/N: my first public fic, just oh so special, published for the_gazebo contest. Thanks to Jennytrue, making me do this, and helping like WHOA.**

**Smeyer owns Twilight, I do not. I swear.**

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Truism, Daughters, and the Grey Shades Surrounding

No good can come from a man who rests so comfortably on his first name alone.

This is one of my basic statements of truth. My daughter, when she takes the occasional break from her paperbacks to offer her opinions, refers to them as my truisms. She also finds them absurd and unnecessary in today's world. My daughter and I are similar creatures but when it comes to unwavering principles, well one of of us feels one way and other just laughs. We're both stubborn as hell. I figured she'd think in a similar way. I was dead wrong. I've since realized there is more than one kind of stubborn. Maybe it has to do with age, or ladies versus gents, or just... _something else. _

For as long as I can remember, I've walked through this world depending on simple truths. I've collected them over the years, and probably, invented the better half of them. They are personally notarized; information deemed important by me, memorized and archived for my personal use. As a young boy, I reached out for answers to simple questions as young boys tend to do. It seemed, in return, I was offered not answers but the changing opinions of everyone around. The difference between what was right and wrong was under attack; the battles were as close as our living room television set. I began to simplify the way I thought about the things. Life was complicated, and becoming a complicated participant in the thick of it all is something I had hoped to avoid.

No good can come from a man who rests so comfortably on his first name alone.

Maybe Bell's lack of experience as a small town Chief of Police has something to do with her rejection of this particular saying. Maybe it is her temporary position as 'newcomer' that has her quite comfortable with the idea of being but a name. And a shortened version at that. I've seen her kick down the name Isabella and fight for the validity of 'Bella' in more than a few public situations. And god knows she'd get rid of Swan all together if it meant she no longer had to have 'Daughter of Law Enforcement' pinned on her like a rose.

If you find yourself a stranger, a true stranger in a small town, you'll probably want to get used to the custom of introducing yourself when approached. Small town people as a rule tend to be curious about the comings and goings of strangers. In a place like this where it's safe to say, "if they know your face, they know your name", well it might be wise to get comfortable sharing your own. _Especially_ when asked. Now if you're a stranger who's reasons for visiting fall just short of virtuous, small town tendencies are probably not in your favor.

When enough calls have come in and the level of suspicion hits that certain point that has the more sensitive of our boys getting one of their hunches, I am usually the one to go see about the stranger. Wouldn't want one of the hunch-having rookies blinded by a vision of the virgin on his way to the scene. Besides, our police force is a just handful of officers, so deciding who does what is not a complicated science. I do not need to explain why I want to be the one to go see about the stranger. No need to be weird about things.

I do not know how or why these wanderers have been lead to believe that one's first name is all that the Chief of Police is after in such a situation. Especially when I find these losers in the particular positions that I do. "What's your name, son?" is a polite way of giving the guy a few extra seconds to start acting normal and maybe find it in him to produce a valid driver's license. I could withdraw my extra-bright flashlight and do some unnecessary facial investigation. I could ask, "you want to know why I pulled you over?" and start the whole official thing right then and there but I don't. I like to ask their name, and I'd like to think they would respond with a solid first and last name followed by the word officer or sir. If a police cruiser convinces you to pull your vehicle over and then a police officer, such as myself, steps out and approaches you, I think it is safe to assume I may be interested in a bit more than what they call you down at your favorite watering hole. By the end of our exchange, I will probably be so interested in the details of your situation, never mind if you're a 'Jimmy' or a 'Bob', that I will have to lock you in the back of my cruiser so I may carefully inspect your vehicle, your belongings, and all of the important items that make you much more than a first name.

Perhaps if I was buying a coffee and the name tag pinned to the uniform of a young man let me know that his name was 'Dan', I would walk away pleased. A 'Dan' had served me my coffee and that would be just fine. I could read the newspaper, enjoy my coffee, and eventually forget about 'Dan'. In fact, I would probably forget about the whole exchange by the time that I reached my desk. The only indication that I had even had coffee that morning would be the simple fact that I always do. 'Dan' had made himself familiar by way of a plastic name tag, an unnecessary offering extended without request. 'Dan', though I only know his first name, represents the complete opposite of the resistant, quarrelsome men that I am sometimes encounter.

'Dan' and I have a lot in common. We both wear name tags and uniforms and serve the community. 'Dan' pours coffee and I go deal with the wanderers. Not that it's all strangers and imprecise weirdness. I shouldn't give the wrong impression. But the strangers stick out in my mind. It's not the theoretical violent crime, nor the kittens trapped in trees that makes me think about this job. It's the people strange enough to call attention to themselves, strange enough to treat an officer of the law like he's some sort of inconvenience of reality, and more often than not, strange enough to have a trace of law breaking either on him, near him, or following close behind. The unsettling middlemen? Well they aren't always criminals, and that has me wondering if I always felt so strongly about their kind; the people in between obvious extremes. Have I always been so suspicious of the things that seem black one moment, and white the next? Have I always shied away from the gray areas? Perhaps I have. They are a strain on how I view things: legal vs. illegal, harmless vs. dangerous, good vs. evil.

Looking back on my decision to become a cop, I must say I don't think it had to do with the prospect of coming face to face with folks who may or may not have their hands in something suspicious. If anything, I was prone to discomfort when faced with life's gray areas. Puzzles without promise of ever being solved. I know it wasn't an obsession with control or authority that drew me in, nor was it a misguided interest in crime and punishment. It was something else and I struggle to find the right words. There was a specific role to uphold, easily understandable rules and laws to enforce and a predictable pattern of responsibility and risk that I found quite reasonable. Policemen were normal and decent and fought on the right team. They were friendly but formal. I remember that seeming like a very desirable dynamic. It was one of those jobs that people referred to as respectable, honest work. They wore uniforms and were honest to the world about who they were and what their intentions were. There was also a steady paycheck, something that I knew young men needed to cement their place into real adult life. An income meant I could provide for my lady. And before I knew it, it would mean providing for not only a lady but a very miniature lady as well.

I liked the idea of service and protecting my home on both a large and small scale. That's a damn good way of thinking about things for someone entering the field of small town law enforcement. I couldn't help but feel grounded in the idea that this wasn't just any small town, that this was _my_ small town, for I had lived here my whole life.

So I admit, thankfully, that police work suited me fine. It turned out to be a whole lot like what I had imagined - an honest living. Not only for the quiet, young family man recently allotted about five short years of the American dream, but equally fine for the man sleep-walking through those strange months just after the dream had ended. And when things started to seem like some sort of normal again, as they tend to, you won't be shocked to hear that the job still suited me. Though as time went on, my job didn't just suit me, it propped me up and animated me and that was fine with me. It was the only thing in my life that required my full participation. The only thing I thought about more than my job was my daughter and she lived far away in a place I'd never been.

My whole life has unfolded under clouds. I grew up extremely accepting of darkness and the rain that clouds tend to bring. The destinations that I've aimed for were always "just around the bend you can't yet see" and "just before the next stretch of dense forest". I learned to drive with the wipers on, always ready to use the high beams. Forks is a rather _undercover_ place, sheltered, hidden, mysterious by the consequence of the climate and landscape. I know enough about Phoenix to realize my daughter has grown up in a very different part of our country and I'm just enough of a philosopher to understand that one's landscape affects their way of looking at things. I often wonder what it's like learning life's lessons in the unending desert walking among your fellow man in a place where all is clear and visible. How constant dry heat may affect one's threshold for discomfort. Bella says the cold and wet are uncomfortable. I disagree knowing that whenever I want I can go inside, take off my boots, change my socks, and quit my bitching. The rain doesn't follow you inside. The heat, I've heard, is a different story. Bella waxes poetic about air conditioning and I remain unconvinced. I don't want anything _conditioning_ my air.

I've been a father for seventeen years even though my daughter and I did not see each other all that often. Every summer we had our two weeks, which of course were regarded as wet and cold but enjoyable none the less. I love my daughter and those two weeks meant more than she will probably ever know. I couldn't grow tired watching Bells, watching her fumble with my fishing gear or play in the tide pools with Billy's kids. I would listen to her talk about her life in Arizona, the books she was reading, or just little observations she would make every now and then. Comments on moss, ferns, or the sights and sounds at the diner. She never issued complaints, only conversation and commentary; short sentences, small smiles. Sometimes I got the sense that it was only in Forks that she could really be a kid or regard herself as being 'off-duty'. I also got the sense that the reason for this happened to be the same reason I have no interest in re-marrying.

Those annual visits ended right around the time that one might expect them to. My ex-wife insisted it was nothing personal, and I accepted her words though I loathed having a conversation like that with her once again. The subject was just a little too familiar despite the focus being on our daughter and not, well _her_. I was OK with my daughter's decision just as I was OK with just about anything that happened to me. If she was happier in Phoenix, I had no business being upset about it. Little did I know how soon it would be before Bella and I were sharing a bathroom and trying to out-hermit one another. I'd be spewing out truisms and she'd be daydreaming about the stuff in between. I'd be worrying about wandering nobodies and my girl would probably be dreaming up tales while trying to actually _be_ a wandering nobody. I'd talk about families in town, kids I knew she went to school with and she'd shrug and half smile. We'd both be thinking in short, thick sentences, keeping our eyes to the ground. She'd go to school, I'd go to work. We'd come home and sit at the table with the same look of, "so, this is it", but we would do so together and separately all at once. It would be something of substance, something I could think about with a smile, unwavering in how I felt. It obviously had nothing to do with right or wrong. Beyond definition, she was here, Forks was Forks, and life was fine. Nothing in between about that, I'm damn sure.

Though my job is protecting the town of Forks, a single transplant has now captured a good portion of all my protective instincts. I try very hard not to be Chief Dad, Officer Father, or anything like that. It's bad enough that I catch her calling me Charlie every now and again. When I pull away from the station at the end of the day, I try not to let my work follow me home. This is difficult because I find comfort in always being the same man with the same ideas. The same principles that aid in my police work govern my actions off-duty. Perhaps if I did more complicated things in between shifts, this wouldn't apply. However, fishing, televised sports, and sitting with a beer or two require very little adjustment in character.

There is something unnatural in leaving the police officer part of me at the station each night. I just don't look at the connection between a man and his occupation that way. If I leave my job at work, I'm not quite certain who I would be when I arrive at my doorstep. If I leave the police officer at work, will the parts of the man remaining know how to operate, how to act as a father? If, while driving home in silence, I manage to abandon my truisms and allow more flexibility in my thoughts and actions, will I falter? I guess the answer depends on how you divide up a man like myself. It depends on whether or not you even think about such things.

When I arrive home, I announce myself and then listen for the sounds of my teenage daughter. I look around the entry way and take note of the reminders that she does, in fact, still live here. Sometimes it is the smell of her cooking or her rain-boots placed neatly by the front door. Many evenings it is the low, muffled sounds of the washing machine; clothes already loaded, a wash already in progress. The girl moves through life taking very little and giving away even less. She is self supported, isolated as well as isolating. To find evidence of her living her life is rare and therefore precious. This fact makes me feel something warm and familiar and I am certain that it is unrelated to being the Chief of Police. With that being understood, at least for a moment, I hang up the notion that I am a man divided. Right after, that is, I hang up my weapon.


End file.
